


This Intolerable World

by kristophine



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Intimate Partner Violence, M/M, Mention of Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-03
Updated: 2015-10-03
Packaged: 2018-04-24 13:30:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4921393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kristophine/pseuds/kristophine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a very real difference between feeling extraordinary and being extraordinary. </p><p>Most people have to choose. Sherlock never does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Intolerable World

There is a very real difference between _feeling_ extraordinary and _being_ extraordinary. Most people are unaware of this because they never approach either, except through the occasional use of recreational drugs. The people who are aware generally choose one or the other. To feel extraordinary, continue a rigorous course of self-delusion and recreational drugs; to be extraordinary, resign yourself to a lifetime of labor, devoid of any particular feeling of genius or elevation. Genius requires effort. It requires work, to maintain accomplishment, to advance accomplishment, and for human beings, the compromise between work and humanity renders the work (while necessary) something less than luminous.

 _Most_ people have to choose. Sherlock never does.

Sherlock is extraordinary the way most people breathe. Sherlock loves the work with a single-minded bloody-minded passion that looks strange on him but suits him, somehow, like the cheekbones and the wild hair.

. . .

This  
is  
intolerable

the world is a filthy river a wash of waste an impossible impassable wilderness of stupidity and savage vice greed that acquires nothing meaningful why is everyone so stupid blind greedy

_this is the way reagent five glistens when applied to sample eight. this is beautiful. this is the heart the beating heart of science beauty beauty beauty the crisp clean elegance the simplicity of logic the path to the solution at once clears and the answer is obvious the answer is a golden light a wash a wave a glow_

and gone. the world is a filthy place full of filthy little people who will kill each other over nothing and if anyone cared about them it would make no difference so who should care they will stab each other and strangle each other and murder strangers they don’t care about their lives why should anyone don’t know why anyone would listen to a single lying word they’re monsters and murderers and thieves and liars all of them lie lie lie

_(he doesn’t lie)_

. . .

Sherlock Holmes does things according to a precise logic. It’s interesting, that he says one thing while the wild light in his eyes says something else; it’s interesting that he either doesn’t care that he shows it, or can’t help showing it.

Sherlock Holmes gets jokes. He really does. He’ll give a little laugh, a chuff of air, a bare ghost of a chuckle or a giggle, and then he’s on to the next thing. But he gets jokes.

. . .

the world is full of information and no one looks or listens how can they avoid it it’s everywhere it’s a shouting torrent it’s a deluge it can’t be turned off there’s no way to turn it off not once you start looking and the world is full of liars liars liars

_(there is someone who doesn’t lie)_

the world is full of criminals who do awful things to awful people it’s one thing isn’t it when they’re awful people but when they’re a blind old woman a child is it something else can it afford to be anything else no no no can’t be distracted tune in this is the message this is the open line

_(someone who is disappointed)_

the world is full of raw and awful feelings that bubble up and boil over and bubble back down all it takes is a gun some bullets an afternoon a bathrobe a couch a distraction but can’t be distracted can’t let go can’t walk away there is no voice other than this voice this voice that says the world is full of

_(the man who doesn’t lie to you)_

. . .

There are long stretches of time where things are almost, vaguely, normal. There’s the occasional burst of manic energy that goes with a crime. There’s a few appalling scenes where Sherlock makes a mess and someone has to clean up after him. Life moves faster these days. There’s very little time for sitting around and pondering the mysteries of a shaking hand or an aching leg. It’s as though something that should have taken years to ripen is instead racing through stages like mad.

There isn’t much to say about why someone would hang around Sherlock. Either a doormat or a psycho, yeah? Not quite good either way. Best not to think about it too much. Best not to contemplate why someone who knows what working feels like, who’s held work and love up side by side and looked at them and chosen work over love some times and love over work at others, would hang around a man who doesn’t even understand that human needs like food, love, sleep, sometimes must interfere. He’s a man driven and obsessed. He’s a man.

. . .

this world is a place where terrible things happen to good people no omnipotent benevolent god then and if no god then no afterlife and if no afterlife then no purpose no meaning life is all we get there is nothing else and if life is all we get and is meaningless then why does it matter whether a blind woman or a child or a fancy banker

_(disappointed, disappointed, disappointed)_

the world is full of disappointment judgment is necessary decisions are necessary

_(doesn’t surprise, though, does it)_

someone has to see the world for what it is and someone has to pick up the dead man’s hand and see that he was a pedophile so of course the murderer is the sister but there’s no need to tell the police that now is there no of course not terrible people do terrible things to each other sometimes rats in the sewer need killing and sometimes the rats in the street the rats in the houses the rats wearing men’s clothes

_(who wouldn’t be disappointed in this world, in someone)_

. . .

There is, of course, no such thing as a high-functioning sociopath. It’s psychological gibberish. The ICV-III has no such classification—sociopath was removed a long time ago—and even if the next closest thing (dissocial personality disorder) was substituted it wouldn’t fit.

Sherlock has plenty of empathy. Look at the look in his eyes. Look at that wild, feral, desperate pair of eyes. Sherlock knows too much for his own good, hates people, intellectualizes them, holds them out and out and out. Sherlock is too smart and can use that as a crutch and a weapon. Sherlock does not want to be seen, so he throws the ignorant a bone, a label that never existed but sounds right to people who don’t know any better. Next week he’ll tell someone he has Asperger’s, just so they stop expecting him to sound like—and the week after that it will be a severe case of brain-fever, probably.

But Sherlock isn’t sane, of course. Nobody like him could ever be.

. . .

_this is becoming intolerable_

_why does he look so why does he look_

. . .

No one hides things from Sherlock. If Sherlock doesn’t see something it’s because he doesn’t care to. Genius doesn’t insulate from self-delusion; if anything, it intensifies denial, the urge to rationalize and justify. No one hides things from Sherlock. If there’s something he doesn’t see, it’s his own fault. It’s certainly no one’s responsibility to hide it from him.

Even if the urge to might make someone tuck their head down into the collar, from time to time. Or turn away. Or walk out into a cold night.

. . .

_there is a man a maniac a man look at him here trying dying for the sake of a look_

the world is rubbish such rubbish all liars and thieves and fools worst of all fools fools fools everywhere and someone has to listen to their idiot squeals like pigs rooting in garbage trying to find some single thing to make their tiny lives worth something at all but no life is worth anything because there is no meaning or purpose no ultimate goal no benevolent omnipotent god no intervention no help no salvation except for what someone delivers in person there is no such thing to make life worth living

_look at the idiot dancing in front of the fool dancing to get his attention look at the idiot_

. . .

If Sherlock wears the black coat to be dramatic, it works. It sets off his complexion, his marble face, his implacable maniac eyes.

If Sherlock tried to get someone’s attention, it would work.

. . .

_if someone touched him_

_if someone did_

_and it wasn’t me_

_would I kill them?_

_I might._

. . .

If Sherlock got someone’s attention and they touched him like a lover, and it wasn’t—if it was someone—what would I do?

Nothing good, probably. I’m as wrong in the head as he is. Just quieter about it.

. . .

_if I kissed him what would he do_

_this is a logical problem a puzzle deduce solve work from the known to the unknown if I_

_if I loved him what would he do_

. . .

Sherlock says, “This is intolerable.”

John’s head snaps up from where he’s been staring at the same page of the newspaper for the last five minutes. “What?”

 _looking for a case thinks I have a case taut lines stress tension reasonable assumption incorrect of course_ “It’s intolerable. Get over here this instant.”

John gets to his feet slowly, deliberately, like he’s weighing something. He always moves like that, except when he doesn’t. Sometimes he ghosts in like a shadow. Tonight he walks over, hands in his pockets, so _deliberately_ and so deliberately unassuming. He’ll do anything, of course, except he might not. He can be judged, predicted, considered, used, but at the end of the day the calculations of human behavior are still fraught with unforeseen pitfalls.

John is standing in front of Sherlock. The latex gloves on Sherlock’s hands come off with a pair of snaps that manage to sound annoyed. “Do you need me to hold something for your experiment?” John asks, sounding weary but not unwilling. _deduced it’s not a case knows I haven’t gotten any messages will take the pseudo-excitement of an experiment if he has to_

“No,” says Sherlock, and without washing his hands (methylene chloride is toxic but not too too) puts them on either side of John’s face and kisses him, hard, furiously.

John gawks, flails a little, loses his balance, pulls Sherlock off the stool in a tremendous crash.

“What—” he says.

“Don’t be tiresome,” says Sherlock.

He punches Sherlock abruptly and with some force. Sherlock touches the blood on his mouth and looks at him with no small amount of wonder.

“Really?” Sherlock asks, consideringly. “I thought I’d worked this out better than that.”

“You—“ says John, and the next thing he knows he’s shouting at the top of his lungs, scrambling to his feet. “You say _no boyfriend_ you say _married to my work_ like it’s nothing, nothing, and you, the explosives, you, what I _said_ , you don’t, do you even _listen_ , you’re a bloody maniac, I hate you,” and then he presses his knuckles into his eyes and continues, in a quieter voice, “I shouldn’t have hit you. Not very good of me.”

“I’m not quite clear on this, John,” says Sherlock. “Are you hitting me because you’re not attracted to me, or because you’re angry with me about something else?”

John just throws his hands up in the air and slams the door on the way out of the flat. Sherlock touches his mouth again.

. . .

the world is a terrible place awful things happen all the time the world is full of liars cheats thieves bad men who assume presume there is no such thing as god fate or destiny there is only the yawning gaping chasm of every single boring day stretching out into a dubious future full of filthy awful people nothing worth it no not much and if anyone gets their stupid hopes up the world will remind them every time that there is nothing at all worth hoping for except the beauty of guilt or exoneration the beauty of an answer snapping into place

_this is the way reagent six reacts with sample eight terrible disappointment nothing at all no smoke no hiss just a bit of liquid in the borosilicate tube_

. . .

Sherlock is barking mad. That’s all there is to it. Just mad.

Someone who sticks around—must be madder still.

There’s no way to know what he’s thinking, what he thinks he’s doing, except to ask. Oh, but asking’s the ugly part, isn’t it? Uglier than what’s gone before. Though that’s nothing to be proud of, either.

Someone who shoots to kill. Someone who has to sit down after death comes that close, someone who’s weak in critical ways. Someone who can’t protect him. Someone who could have watched him die right there by the pool, someone who nearly did. Someone would have to be utterly insane to do that and come back for more.

Someone could play it off as a serious case of being a doormat, could pretend to be the sane one, could trade sympathetic looks with the police. But what’s under the face isn’t what’s on the face, and if they could see through to the brain, how surprised they’d be. Someone is mad. Someone is a machine that moves and kills. Someone would be there again to watch his back, however little it needed watching, however much it needed watching.

Someone needs to go home.

. . .

When the door opens Sherlock doesn’t look around. “Scissors,” he says, in a peremptory way.

The scissors are placed in his hand a moment later. He cuts the thread and the fabric scrap drops to the slide, fluttering a bit. _analysis will confirm—_

“Sherlock,” says John.

His head comes up and he glowers into the distance, although not, tellingly, over his shoulder. His mouth is petulant, like a child’s, and the tension in his back and shoulders is the tension of dread. The blood on his lip is gone; it’s lightly split, pink and beginning to get puffy, but it’s clearly been iced. Good. He has that much sense, at least.

John puts his hand on that tense, arched back, and Sherlock is still.

“I’ve been angry with you,” says John. “I’m not done being angry with you.”

“I know,” Sherlock replies, quietly and with no bravado, still looking to the side, not back at John. There’s a moment where no one moves. Then John draws in a breath and it sounds like he’s fighting something.

“If you—whatever you want,” John begins, but Sherlock is getting up, shaking off his hand in a convulsive movement.

“John, if you please,” says Sherlock, “I have an experiment to conduct and a man’s life hangs in the balance. Kindly hand me that sample box and then _go away._ ”

John does.

. . .

Intolerable. He said it was intolerable.

Things are quite normal, nearly. For them. It is intolerable.

. . .

this world is a horrid place this world is a miserable filthy heap of lies and disgrace there is no need to ask what kind of man would do that he knows he always knows the kind of man who would do that is the same kind of man who would kill to hide it the kind of man whose son’s scars didn’t come from nowhere the world is a horrible dungeon that everyone is trapped in the world is a meaningless shuttered pit of misery the world is not worth it not worth it at all not worth

_(what would he have said?)_

anything at all

. . .

Sherlock is lying on the sofa, his back to the door, his ratty bathrobe falling half off him. There is a stretch of shoulder, marble-white, and on it there’s the telltale raised gooseflesh.

“You’re cold,” says John.

Sherlock’s reply is muffled by the couch.

John fetches the blanket and drapes it over Sherlock. The gesture has a certain intimacy that he used to revel in. Doing it now feels strange, too close to stand. He ignores the discomfort and arranges it over Sherlock’s bony feet. During the process Sherlock doesn’t move. John gets the strange impression that Sherlock entirely stops breathing.

After the blanket is on, Sherlock doesn’t say anything. Nor does John.

John eventually retreats to his room. His eyes settle on the closed door.

. . .

“This is intolerable,” says John, staring at Sherlock’s back.

Sherlock jerks a little and twists around. So he was asleep.

“Hm?” he says, his eyes losing their glaze and focusing sharply on John’s face, for the first time since—well. In a while.

John kneels by the couch. Sherlock pushes back into the couch, almost imperceptibly. His eyes look—not that much different than they usually do. Most people wouldn’t notice it. Most people haven’t made a study of him.

The lip has healed. He hasn’t seemed to hold a grudge.

John reaches out. Love feels like fear; fear feels like love. He takes Sherlock’s hand in both of his and stares at it for a minute. He can see the pulse hammering at the wrist, ruining the subtlety of Sherlock’s illusions.

“I won’t be your shag,” he says, quietly. “I won’t be something you pick up when you want it and set down when you’re tired of it. I won’t be a toy. I won’t be something you get bored of. I just won’t.”

Sherlock is staring at him, flummoxed, by all appearances.

“And I know you,” he says. “I know you pick things up and throw them away. I know how you get bored. I know you don’t have—friends. And I know, I think I know how you—well. I saw—at the pool. You were—and I want you to know me, you see? I want you to know what I will and won’t be.”

Sherlock says, through a mouth that sounds dry, “And what will you be?”

John just looks at him.

Sherlock shakes his head, almost imperceptibly. “Not after what happened last time,” he says.

So John does what Sherlock won’t, now. He lifts up Sherlock’s hand and he kisses it, kisses each knuckle like he owns it, and feels himself getting helplessly hard, the jolt of it in his stomach like the sharp anticipation of a gunshot.

He lowers Sherlock’s hand and risks glancing up, and meets Sherlock’s stare.

Sherlock abruptly grips John’s hand that holds his, and drags John up by it, up to his mouth, and then they’re kissing and it is fantastic, all—

. . .

soft hot wet press of lips skin against metacarpal distal phalanges nape of neck sharp edge of pelvis denim rough texture of course this brand bought at but oh soft hair fingers hot wet how

_(this is)_

. . .

When Sherlock rolls off the couch and drops onto John it knocks his breath out and makes him, impossibly, hotter, harder, the nips of teeth and the gentle worrying of his earlobe and the way Sherlock doesn’t let go of his hand.

. . .

After, John says, “I thought you were going to die.”

“You think that weekly. Any specifics?” Sherlock glances over and freezes, watching John’s face. “Of course,” he says, without changing his expression or his tone of voice, but somehow vastly different. “The pool. Moriarty.”

“Of course,” says John.

“You think it was stupid of me. And that it’s my fault people are dead. And it’s certainly my fault that you ended up covered in explosives.”

John looks away.

Sherlock says, slowly, “And that’s why you’ve been mad at me. You’re still disappointed—John, what part of _I am not a hero_ was difficult to understand? I’m not. I like crime, I like solving crimes. I don’t do it for justice or for other people. I do it for myself.”

“So you’re a selfish lunatic,” says John.

“Yes.”

“And you lie. All the time.”

“Yes.”

John leans back, resting his head against the floor. “Can’t imagine why I thought this might go badly,” he says. But it’s not a sneer, and it’s not taunting. Just tired.

“I won’t—” but Sherlock hesitates.

“Let people kill me? Yeah, thanks, you tried, but I thought you were going to die and I was going to die. And you don’t even feel it. I don’t know if you’d care if you really thought someone was going to kill you.”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything.

“Are you suicidal?”

His lips tighten. He starts to roll away. John stops him with a hand on his arm.

Sherlock stops. There are several long moments of uncomfortable silence.

“Not actively,” he finally says. He’s tired, too. “It gets boring. It gets awful.”

They lie there in silence for a while after that. Finally, John says, “Are we going to sleep in the same bed?”

“Yes.”

“Yours or mine?”

Sherlock shoots him a withering look. “Yours. Obviously.”

John snorts back half of a chuckle and says, “Obviously.”

. . .

this world is a terrible place but there is his hair in the light of streetlamps and there is his mouth slack in sleep and there is his hand there is each bone of his hand the bones of his wrists the soft skin of his inner arm he might have died you might have died it might never have happened the smell of chlorine the wet drops clinging to his hair the fear the moment you lifted the gun

he might have

he might have died

but that can’t be what matters not now and not ever because the world is this world and his hair his face that soft curve where his jaw the temporomandibular joint the sphenoid under his skin the knit together bones of his skull bregma lambda where is it do you think where are the stereotactic coordinates of goodness and grace

_(he needs a hero)_

. . .

John doesn’t know it. It takes a long time for things to percolate through an internal world full of savage, awful misery. It takes such a very long tiresome time for things to change. But things can change, and do, and people can change, and do, whatever it may seem like during the glacial creep of day to day.

John doesn’t know it, but the day they met was the day he changed the game.


End file.
